


The Sorrowful Mysteries

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:38:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2120517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a season tainted by injury, Steven Stamkos struggles to make sense of the incomprehensible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“A weed is but an unloved flower.”—Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Agony in the Garden

Staring out the window of his room in the Massachusetts General Hospital at the unfamiliar and bustling boulevard teeming with businesspeople lugging briefcases to conferences and joggers running to burn off a few calories, Steven Stamkos thought that the painkillers might have dulled the pain in his tibia—a bone he would never have been able to point out before it broke, sending spears piercing through his entire body—but they made his head feel clogged yet oddly empty as if his brain cells had been replaced with a million cotton balls. 

It was the day after surgery and the day before he could receive medical clearance to travel back to Tampa to begin the long road to recovery on home ice, which meant he was left with the challenge of trying to arrange the jagged edges of twenty-four hours into a jigsaw that seemed logical and cohesive rather than jumbled. Already he had Skyped with the Lightning and Cooper to debrief about the Montreal game and assure them that he really had gotten through his surgery without any complications. 

Even harder than that call had been the one to his parents in Ontario in which he had glossed over his surgery (that they had all been so anxious about a day ago) as a nuisance he hadn’t even been conscious for, and emphasized how excited he was to skate again in a few days. There had been no reason to say anything more than that, because they all knew if he had any chance of returning to hockey this season nonetheless before the Olympic break that he hoped wouldn’t be a vacation but instead a winning streak with Team Canada in Sochi, he would have to start rehab immediately. 

Once he had hung up on his mom and dad, he had tried to watch NBC news but found it all so depressing that he had switched the TV off entirely, figuring it was better to be trapped in the quiet of his mind than the horror of the breaking bulletins describing the world’s inability to get along for even five minutes. 

Just when the silence had been beginning to drive him crazy enough to pray that a nurse would materialize with a tray bearing a slab of some mystery meat and a scoop of what purported to be mashed potatoes and gravy for lunch, his cell had buzzed. Snatching it off his nightstand, he read the incoming message from Zdeno Chara, wishing him well and lending the Bruins’ support. Thinking that being able to borrow a spare tibia would be nice if the Bruins captain could manage it, Steven had typed the polite, expected response about how grateful he was for the support and how well he was doing under the care of the friendly staff at Boston General Hospital. 

The text from Chara—the big, bad defenseman who was the hockey equivalent to the wolf in Red Riding Hood or the Three Little Pigs—had shocked him, but he had supposed that maybe every hockey player in the arena was cowed by a freak accident on a routine maneuver that occurred a hundred times a game and six billion times a career. Everyone was vulnerable to a fluky skate edge and an uncompromising goalpost, so that made everybody sympathetic and scared. 

Then, because he’d had nothing better to do, he started reliving the injury in the harsh camera lens of his memory for what had to be the millionth time since he had been carried off the ice at Boston Garden on a stretcher. Just as a forward was taught to do in his defensive zone, he had backchecked hard, holding a staunch position against Hamilton, and then, as they were jostling for position near the net, his edge had slipped out from beneath him. Before he could begin to process what was happening—since his mind was spiraling out of control into some wacky alternate universe as surely as his body was—he had collided with the goalpost. 

Arrows of agony had shot up his leg, but—at least not at first—the pain hadn’t felt debilitating, so he stumbled to his feet as he had been trained to do and started what he knew would be a very long skate back to his bench. Never in his NHL career had he suffered an injury remotely like this, but he understood what was expected of him. Hockey basically the only professional sport where a team played with a shortened roster if a player left with an injury mid-game, so he was supposed to return to the bench, assume a stoic smile to tell Coop that he would be ready to roll for the next shift or the one after that, and then ice his leg for a minute or two under the trainer’s watchful gaze. 

What he wasn’t supposed to do was fall again, or moan incoherently about how everything hurt when Killorn bent over to ask how he was holding up, but that was exactly what he had done. Pounding on the indifferent ice with fists clenched in a mixture of pain and fury because his body was designed to be tougher than this, he had thought that he was tied for the league lead in points and goals, not to mention riding an eight game point streak and a six game goal streak, so he didn’t have time for any injuries. That hadn’t made a difference, though, when the trainer had finally arrived after what seemed like an eon, and he could only babble on about how much he wanted to leave the ice right away…

He could almost hear the traditional ovation a crowd offered a fallen athlete when he rose again whether by his own strength or on a stretcher—that had filled Boston Garden to the rafters and Jumbotron echoing in his ears, so at first he didn’t notice the appearance of a nurse with flyaway black curls wearing Winnie the Pooh scrubs as if to reduce all her patients to a second, involuntary childhood. 

“Claude Julien is here to visit you,”said the nurse whose nametag proclaimed in large, dark font that she was Natalie Fisher. “If you’re up to seeing him, that is.” 

“A visit from him would be welcome.” Steven grinned, because any vacation from the tedium of a hospital bed that was already giving him nightmares about bed sores and other afflictions of the infirm and the elderly was promising. “Thank you.” 

As Natalie vanished on clicking heels into the corridor to presumably relate to Claude Julien that his presence was welcome, Steven struggled to prop himself against his pillows in a more alert fashion that he hoped conveyed that he was ready to fight his injury and win. Being an assistant coach for Team Canada, Claude Julien was a part of the selection committee for the Sochi Olympics, and Steven wanted to impress him at every possible opportunity. Going into the game at the Garden, Steven had been planning to score a goal, not break his tibia on a goalpost. In a cloud above the Hockey Hall of Fame, the hockey gods were probably still enjoying a hearty guffaw at his expense about that fun fact. 

“Steven.” Julien nodded a greeting as he crossed the threshold and strode over to Steven’s bed. “You look better than the last time I saw you.” 

“I’ve graduated from a stretcher to a bed.” Steven gave a twisted half-moon smile as he watched Julien settle into a lounge chair by his nightstand with a crunching of cushions. “That does wonders for the appearance.” 

“Yes, and I hear you’ve had your surgery.” For a second, Julien’s eyes flickered from Steven’s face to his damaged leg before fixing his gaze on Steven’s again. “How did that go?” 

“Very well, thanks for asking.” Steven tried to channel every bit of determination he had ever felt into his current expression so Julien could understand how steely his resolve to make a comeback for Canada and Tampa Bay was this season. “I can travel back to Tampa tomorrow and return to the ice for rehab in a couple of days.” 

“It’s still projected as possible for you to recover by the middle of February.” Julien nodded, and Steven wasn’t certain which one of them the gesture was intended to assure. “We’re all rooting for you to make a quick comeback from this injury.” 

“I appreciate that.” Swallowing, Steven felt as if the cotton balls had relocated from his brain to the apparent prime real estate of his mouth. “I’ll do my best to live up to all expectations.” 

“Of course.” Rising from the chaise with squeak of upholstery, Julien clapped Steven on the shoulder en route to the door. “You’re the sort of quality player audiences pay to see and nobody wants to see go down in a freak accident. Now I’ll leave you to get some shut-eye, since sometimes sleep is the best cure.” 

As soon as Julien left, Steven shifted into a more relaxed, comfortable posture and closed his eyes, but sleep didn’t come. Instead, his mind was deluged with images of another Olympic Team Canada that he wasn’t on celebrating gold and a Tampa team floundering from a top spot in the Eastern Conference to a bottom-feeder without him, and he had to bite back a scream. After all, he didn’t want Natalie or some other nurse worrying that his life systems were failing him when all that was wrong with him was a too vivid imagination with too much free time in which to indulge itself. Once he was sweating and swearing his way through rehab in Tampa, he would be fine, because at least he would be moving forward rather than staying still.


	2. Chapter 2

“Though the dungeon, the scourge, and the executioner be absent, the guilty mind can apply the goad and scorch with blows.”—Lucretius

The Scourging at the Pillar

The waiting was the worst, Steven thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to flick off the TV or even switch to a different channel than the one from which Steve Yzerman and the rest of the selection committee would announce the Canadian Olympic roster. Anything, even finding out for certain that he hadn’t been good enough to make the cut, would be better than this dreadful anticipation. Second by second, he fluctuated from believing that he would make the roster to derisively educating himself that, even with two perfectly healed legs, he wouldn’t be able to make the cut for the All-Star squad Yzerman was assembling…

Massaging his temples, Steven wished that he wasn’t so alone with his anxiety right now and wondered if he should have gone down to the Fairmont’s gym with Marty. Whenever he was worried, frustrated, angry, or upset, Marty could use those negative emotions as fuel for breaking land-speed records on a treadmill or picking up what seemed to be twice his body weight in irons. 

Maybe Steven should have tried to copy his example in this as he had in so much else ever since he had arrived in Tampa with all the hopes of a first overall pick shimmering around him like a halo, but he was still too nervous to exert himself in any fashion not outlined by a trainer that might jeopardize the steps he had already taken in his road to recovery to venture to the gym for an impromptu workout. Besides, he had always been more motivated by the positive than the negative, unlike Marty. 

Since Marty had gone undrafted and, by the sound of it, had been told by hundreds of foolish people that he was too small to crack it in the NHL, Marty relished nothing more than defying all expectations of his performance and proving everyone who had ever doubted him wrong. In contrast, Steven wanted to prove everybody who had ever believed in him right, so that nobody could claim he was a waste of a first overall pick and that the best he had ever looked in a Lightning jersey was when he slipped it on in the middle of a podium surrounded by a cheering stadium on Draft Day. 

Perhaps being overlooked on his Draft Day had left Marty with a bit of an inferiority complex, but it wasn’t as if first overall picks were free of neuroses, Steven reflected. First overall picks were a motley crew with varying degrees and manifestations of madness. There was Marc-Andre Fleury, who didn’t always let in soft, team-deflating goals, but when he did it was in the playoffs. There was Sidney Crosby, who didn’t always stay in Mario’s mansion, but if he wasn’t there, he was at his own place across the street, inventing new superstitions. There was Alexander Ovechkin, who was paid only to score and would probably charge the Capitals an extra million or two for any feeble attempts at backchecking. There was Patrick Kane, who didn’t always say and do provocative things, but when he did, he was probably blasted out of his cranium. As for Steven, what did his fellow first overalls think of him? Probably they thought that he was too happy-go-lucky and prone to perceiving life as one long joke with no punchline the universe played upon them all. 

Yeah, based on the small sample size, it surely seemed as if a first overall pick who wasn’t crazy to begin with would become a bit of a lunatic after a season or two in the NHL. Maybe somebody should create a support group for them, which couldn’t be anonymous, of course, since nothing they did ever was. Still, it could organize helpful, practical seminars relevant to first overalls such as “A Complete Idiot’s Guide to Saving a Nose-Diving Franchise” and “Checking Your Ego: First Overall Doesn’t Mean Number One All the Time.” 

Slicing across Steven’s musings, the door swung open abruptly, and Marty, sweating like a horse that had just finished the Kentucky Derby, entered. As he stowed his swipe key in the pocket of his gym shorts and closed the door after him, Marty announced, “It was a good, brisk workout. I ran five miles.” 

“I’d prefer a more relaxing experience myself,” teased Steven, flashing a broad grin. “The water yoga at the pool sounds very tranquil, and, if there’s anything rehab has taught me, it’s that I have a soft spot for underwater exercises. They make you feel so weightless and free.” 

“Come off it,” snorted Marty, as he plopped onto his bed. “There’s no such thing as water yoga.” 

“There is too!” His smile widening so it stretched from ear to ear, Steven waved the Fairmont’s activity schedule, which he scooped off his nightstand, around like the banner of a triumphant army. “It takes place every morning and evening after the perennially popular water aerobics.” 

“Right.” Marty, who had plainly lost interest in this topic, burst out without the benefit of any transition, “Did you get a call from Yzerman about the Olympics?” 

“Nope.” Steven shook his head. “The last time I spoke to him about the Olympics was shortly after I banged up my leg. He told me that I was still in consideration for the team, but he hasn’t said anything since, so I don’t have a clue what that means.” 

“It doesn’t mean anything bad,” said Marty fiercely, and Steven was too wrapped up in his own fear to contemplate how his friend could sound so adamant. “Yzerman would have called to warn you if you didn’t make the cut.” 

“I guess so.” In his nerves, Steven could feel his smile begin to slip, and he fought to resurrect it with a laugh that might have been a touch too loud. “I never know what hints are good or bad in cases like this. If I ever was dragged to trial, I wouldn’t have any idea whether the jury looking at me meant they’d found me guilty or not. It’s pathetic.” 

“Stow it,” hissed Marty, jerking a finger at the TV screen, where a miniature version of Yzerman was approaching a lectern to start announcing the Olympic team. “Our shy GM is about to make a speech. Do you want him to have to shout over you?” 

“Yep, all the way from Toronto.” Steven’s eyes gleamed as Yzerman opened the comments that proceeded the announcement of the Olympic team that every armchair GM in Canada would be critiquing as soon as it hit the airwaves. “Oh, and he should also use smoke signals and carrier pigeons for an original yet historic flare.” 

As Yzerman rambled on in a borderline incoherent manner about how difficult the selection process had been and how much competition the Canadian team would face at the Olympics, Steven’s fingers plucked a loose thread on his blanket. Wishing that Yzerman would just start breaking hearts with the actual announcement, Steven muttered, “Great. Our GM is so tense that he forgot how to speak English. He should’ve had some Corona or something to get his tongue flowing better before appearing on national television like this. What an embarrassment for our franchise.” 

“He sounds as if he had a bit too much to drink already.” Marty’s lips thinned as Yzerman reeled off the list of three goaltenders—Roberto Luongo, Carey Price, and Mike Smith—who would be making the trip to Sochi, and their names and faces flashed one by one across a large projection screen behind the lectern.

“My dad says Yzerman is really just an old-time hockey player, so he doesn’t communicate like the rest of us mortals,” remarked Steven, remembering his policy about not badmouthing anyone affiliated with the Lightning organization no matter how tempting the circumstances. “He told me that Yzerman doesn’t want to be caught saying the wrong thing or committing to something publically and then having to go back on his word, so he’ll be vague and always leave himself some wiggle room when making media statements.” 

“Yzerman is a master of evasion,” Marty agreed in a tart tone as Steven noted inwardly that each of them had their own methods of surviving the media, and his had always been to simply be upbeat about everything and to only say pleasant things on camera, since that had to make everyone happy. “He has the control to say only what he wants, and the intelligence to be sure that what he reveals is only a little of his plan.” 

Steven might have replied to this, but, by then, various committee members had finished reading the list of defensemen—Jay Bouwmeester, Drew Doughty, Dan Hamphius, Duncan Keith, Alex Pietrangelo, P.K. Subban, Marc-Edouard Vlasic, and Shea Weber—and the forwards were being announced. Although he realized that the list of forwards was alphabetical, so his name wouldn’t appear until near the end if at all, Steven felt his muscles coiling like an anaconda strangling prey. 

The first shock that came to him—feeling like ice water thrown over his head and then pumped through his veins—was when Claude Giroux’s name wasn’t read after Ryan Getzlaf’s. 

“No Giroux!” Steven exclaimed, mouth practically dropping to the floor in astonishment. 

“I guess he wasn’t good enough to make the team, either.” Marty’s jaw tightened, and Steven, too focused on the Giroux omission, didn’t have time to question what the last word Marty had spoken might have implied. 

“Giroux and I had some major chemistry when he centered me at Worlds.” Steven whistled at the recollection. “I was hoping that he could center me at the Olympics, and then you could play the opposite wing. That would be an epic line. I love playmakers.” 

“As a sniper, you might, but as a coach, Babcock doesn’t, and this roster has his fingerprints smeared all over it.” Marty’s mouth twisted. “Babcock prefers size to skill. One day he’ll probably trade the wizard Pavel Datsyuk for something with more toughness like a gorilla.” 

“No way.” Laughs floating out of him like bubbles, Steven tossed back his head. “The day that happens, Datsyuk will flee to the KHL because the NHL is too crass to appreciate his genius.” 

His laughter turned into a series of hiccups as he noticed that the end of the alphabet had arrived, and Yzerman was returning to the lectern. Only choking on the syllables once, Yzerman read out Steven’s hometown, but Steven refused to get his hopes up too high, since it would be humiliating if he started celebrating and the Olympian was really some boy down the street. When Yzerman mentioned the Lightning, though, Steven couldn’t hold back the dam of excitement any longer, and he whooped so loudly that he couldn’t actually hear his name although he could see his picture flash on the projector behind Yzerman. 

“Congratulations!” shouted Marty, chucking a pillow at Steven’s head that Steven ducked with an indignant yelp. “I told you that you didn’t need to be worried.” 

“Thanks.” By way of vengeance for the unexpected assault, Steven hurled a pillow at Marty’s face. “Now, pay attention. You’re going to be next, and you’ve got to be prepared for it.” 

About this, though, he was wrong, for the next name read wasn’t Marty but John Tavares. Feeling as though his heart had been yanked out and as if he were viewing his entire world through the wrong end of a microscope because he didn’t understand how he could make the team on one leg while Marty couldn’t on two, Steven gasped, “Marty, I’m so sorry. There’s got to be some weird clerical error going on at Hockey Canada or something, because you’re the reigning Art Ross trophy winner. You’ve got to be on the team. You deserve to be on the team.” 

“There’s no mistake.” Marty cleared his throat with a noise reminiscent of gravel rattling around in a metal pail, and with a pang, Steven recognized that Marty must have been aware before the Olympic team was announced that he hadn’t made the roster, but he had wanted to be beside Steven when it was read anyway. That he would choose to rejoice with Steven rather than sulking in private when Steven was getting what he wanted was the epitome of unselfish friendship. “Yzerman called me earlier today to alert me that I didn’t make the cut. He snubbed me again just like he did in 2010. Not that he has the guts to admit that he snubbed me, oh no. He says that a snub is ignoring someone, and he and his precious selection committee scouted and evaluated me before they rejected me. Well, I don’t have to put up with that sort of insult any more. I told him that I wanted to be traded, since I couldn’t work for somebody who had zero trust in my abilities as a hockey player.” 

“You requested to be traded mid-season?” demanded Steven, eyes popping out like bottle caps. “How can you even think of doing that, Marty? You’re our captain, and we need you. You can’t just abandon us because you’re ticked off at Yzerman. You have to stick with your team even when management is terrible. The Tampa Bay Lightning is a heck of a lot bigger than Yzerman, and you’ll be hurting many people besides him if you leave just because he slighted you.” 

“Don’t blow a major artery, Stammer.” Marty lifted a soothing palm. “I’d hardly be leaving the Lightning in the middle of a deep, dark wood. You’re ready to be captain, and there is tons of young talent to keep the team competitive in the future. Yzerman has his warts, but he can build a team with depth.” 

“By young talent you mean rookies.” Steven’s chin rose. “Those rookies rely on your veteran presence to steady them on the ice and in the locker room. Can you imagine how it would rock their confidence if you just bailed on them mid-season?” 

“You sound like Yzerman,” growled Marty, eyes flaming like dry wood. “Are you on his side then?” 

“I didn’t even know there were sides.” Steven bit his lip. “I thought we were all one team.” 

“Sometimes you can be so naïve, Stammer.” Sighing, Marty shook his head, and Steven figured that if ever there were two beings designed to clash they were Marty and Yzerman. Marty would not tolerate any affront to his abilities because he worked so hard to prove his value as an individual, and Yzerman would never apologize for doing his duties— especially if they were personally difficult, because that was when lesser people shirked their responsibilities—since he always placed the person below the team. Marty was the unstoppable force that would not be halted by any obstruction in his path, while Yzerman was the immovable object that would not be jolted by any pressure that rammed into him. What transpired within the Lighting organization over the next few weeks was bound to be an explosive experiment in what until now had been theoretical physics. “There’s been sides ever since Yzerman took over in Tampa. Yzerman doesn’t see people as human beings with feelings that can be hurt by rejection. He just views them as disposable things to be thrown away as necessary to build whatever he believes is the most competitive roster possible in the long run. The only loyalties he knows are to winning and team. No wonder he got along so well with Scotty Bowman for ten years in Detroit. They’re a ruthless, matching set.” 

“He expects other people to sacrifice for team to the same degree he does, so that’s fair.” Steven felt uncomfortable, as if only star players who were GM killers spoke so bluntly about things like this even in private. “Besides, he hasn’t tried to discard me. He put me on Team Canada although I’m the very definition of walking wounded right now.” 

“He hasn’t chucked you in a garbage heap since you’re a young star expected to make a full recovery.” Marty clucked his tongue. “If you were an aging veteran with a sizable contract, you’d be bought out before you could blink.” 

“Don’t talk like that.” Steven rubbed his healing leg, trying to create friction and heat for a limb that suddenly felt cold although the radiator was thrumming at maximum against the frigid Winnipeg night. “Why worry about what might have happened if I were someone completely different?” 

“Because it already happened to Vinny.” Marty pounded a fist against his thigh. “If you hang around in Tampa long enough, Yzerman will get rid of you whenever he decides you aren’t best for whatever vision of team he has. If I were you, I’d leave on your own terms as soon as your contract is over.” 

“I’m happy in Tampa. I love the franchise and the fans. We’ve got a deep, young team, and Coop isn’t the Abominable Snowman.” Steven continued to stroke his leg. “I’m not planning on leaving when my contract is over.” 

Silence fell between them for a moment, and then Steven said, “Listen, Marty, maybe once you’ve calmed down a bit and been reminded over the course of a couple of games how much the younger guys look up to you, you won’t want to leave just to spite Yzerman. Will you please wait until after the Olympic break to make a serious push for a trade?” 

“All right.” Marty exhaled gustily. “In return, though, you’ve got to promise to respect whatever decision I do make.” 

“What if I don’t agree with it?” Steven arched an eyebrow. 

“You don’t have to agree with it, just respect my right to decide.” Marty gave a grin that was slanted sideways. “As my friend, that’s all I’m asking you to do.” 

“You don’t need to ask.” Steven’s face split into a smile. “I always support you even though you’re hopelessly misguided and refuse to listen to your GPS, which, by the way, is me.”


	3. Crown of Thorns

“Any man worth his salt has by the time he is forty-five accumulated a crown of thorns, and the problem is to learn to wear it over one ear.”—Christopher Morley 

The Crowning with Thorns

“We have the results from this afternoon’s CT-Scan to discuss with you.” Lightning Medical Director Ira Gutentag opened a portfolio once he had finished exchanging pleasantries with Steven and Yzerman, who inhabited the two aquamarine leather chairs opposite Dr. Gutentag’s mahogany desk. “As you know, the CT-Scan provides a three-dimensional view of the bone that other tests do not.” 

“Yes.” Steven’s spine was tingling. He had heard all this explained what felt like a hundred times before, and he just needed this test to confirm what his leg was already screaming at him: he was ready to play in Saturday’s game against Toronto and then fly to Sochi to hopefully win gold with Team Canada. Every second he waited for official medical clearance would feel like hours. “You’ve mentioned that.” 

“We’re very pleased with the progress you’ve made thus far in your rehabilitation.” Dr. Gutentag’s whole face shifted as he took a deep breath before dropping what seemed to Steven like a bigger atomic bomb than the one that hit Hiroshima. “Unfortunately, your tibia needs to heal considerably more before we can give you medical clearance for games.”

“What do you mean?” Steven’s whole body felt numb, and he wondered vaguely whether a tingling spine was a warning sign for the onset of paralysis from the neck down, since his mouth, at least seemed to be functional, as was his mind, which was now whirling at a million miles an hour. 

“Do you want me to show you all the gory details or just provide an overview?” Dr. Gutentag eyed Steven as if he feared some other part might break at any second, resulting in a massive lawsuit. 

“Please show me the gory details.” Steven managed to tilt his lips into a smile, because it had always been a private joke between him and the Lightning medical staff that he took a perverse interest in the CT-Scans and X-Rays of injured teammates. Maybe in a past life he had been a surgeon or something. “You know I have a taste for the gruesome, Doctor.” 

“Some patients become squeamish when it’s their own injuries being discussed.” Dr. Gutentag was still studying Steven as if he were something fragile that needed to be wrapped up in bubble wrap sooner rather than later. 

“Not me.” Steven shook his head. He needed to understand exactly what his injury was, so he could figure out how to fix it, and perhaps—if his body and brain had the energy---even why it had happened to him, since fracturing his tibia in the Boston Garden still felt surreal and inexplicable in its randomness. “I found and watched online videos of the same surgery procedure I underwent at Massachusetts General Hospital. I needed to see exactly what had been done to me.” 

“All right. I’ll respect your wishes and get on with my explanation, then. In order for our medical staff to judge it safe for you to play, the callus surrounding the site of your fracture needs to be sealed completely.” On the black and white image of Steven’s fractured tibia, Dr. Gutentag indicated with a spear of his finger a bubble encircling the break. “If you look closely here, you will see that is not the case. “The callus around your fracture site has not consolidated entirely, and until that happens we cannot, in good conscience, clear you for game action.” 

“The test results are conclusive?” asked Yzerman, conveniently speaking for the first time since they when exchanged greetings now that Steven’s mouth felt dry as sawdust. “There’s no room for error or misreading?” 

“The results are clear as crystal.” Dr. Gutentag bobbed his head in confirmation of his own assessment. “The CT-Scan took the pictures without any difficulty, and our medical staff had no trouble interpreting the data from the test.” 

“My leg feels ready to play on.” Steven lifted his chin, as if his senses should be viewed as more conclusive proof of his status than any CT-Scan results. “I’ve been skating fine, and I can survive contact in practice.” 

“Sometimes patients’ bodies feel prepared to handle things they aren’t.” Dr. Gutentag fidgeted with a pen cap. “Rushing back from injuries is how people damage their long-term health, Steven.” 

“What timeframe for recovery are we looking at now?” Yzerman arched an eyebrow, and Steven waited to hear how much farther back his next estimated date of return—which, at this rate, he’d probably miss, too—would fall. 

“Two to three weeks,” replied Dr. Gutentag, and, feeling as if he had been drenched in kerosene and then set aflame, Steven marveled at how that clinical fragment could smash all his Olympic dreams. “That’s the best case scenario for the callus sealing completely. At that point, we’d want to run Steven through another CT-Scan, and, if his callus had consolidated entirely, he’d be cleared to play. Right now we could tentatively target the game against Nashville for Steven’s return.” 

His mind floating like a hot air balloon above his body, Steven recognized with a jolt that Yzerman was glancing at him. Since at that moment, he desired nothing more than to be left alone so that he could stare at a wall and try not to cry, he didn’t particularly appreciate being stared at with an intensity that could have stripped paint. Then he realized that his GM was doing him a favor, allowing him to salvage what remained of his pride by resigning from Team Canada rather than being kicked off it or told he wasn’t good enough to go to the Olympics, after all, or whatever was done with athletes who weren’t cleared to play who insisted on attempting to compete anyway. 

“I tried my best to come back from my injury in time for the Olympics.” Steven stumbled over the words even though if there was any idea that he wished to express in a coherent fashion, this one was it. 

“I know that. Everyone involved with Team Canada knows that.” Just like he had as a captain in Detroit, Yzerman managed to say the right thing without saying much, and some of the tension coiled in Steven’s muscles relaxed. He hadn’t even started grieving yet, but at least nobody affiliated with Team Canada or the Lightning would be assuming that he wasn’t going to the Olympics because he was lazy. “Nobody’s questioning your work ethic or your commitment, Steven. How hard you work and how dedicated you are has never been in any doubt.” 

“I would have been so excited to play for Canada in Sochi, but I can’t do that if I’m not medically cleared.” Steven wondered whether he sounded like a whiny McDonald’s employee yelling at a boss that he couldn’t be fired for ruining a Happy Meal because he was quitting this minimum-wage, low-satisfaction gig. “I’m honored to have been named to the roster, but, since I can’t compete, I’ll have to resign.” 

“I understand how you feel,” answered Yzerman, and Steven couldn’t deal with the sympathy in his GM’s normally impassive dark eyes. “Contacting Wayne Gretzky in 2006 to inform him that I couldn’t go to the Olympics was one of the hardest things I ever had to do.” 

“You already had a gold medal from Salt Lake City.” Running his palm through his hair, Steven wished that he sounded less petulant, but his emotions were too raw for him to control them any more than just preventing himself from sobbing up a new Pacific Ocean. “I still haven’t won anything at the Olympics yet.” 

Part of the blame for that sad statistic might have rested with Yzerman, since Yzerman hadn’t placed him on the Vancouver team in 2010, but Steven had always refused to reflect on that, because it seemed guaranteed to make his relationship with his GM more acrimonious than it had to be. After all, Marty and Yzerman had discussed the Vancouver snub way back when Yzerman had first become the Lightning’s GM, and the only thing Marty had gotten out of the meeting was an opportunity to express that he would be eternally disappointed by Yzerman’s choice to leave him off the roster in 2010. Talking about potential past grievances just seemed likely to build resentment not promote future cooperation, so why was Steven even trying to lance this boil right now? He had to have lost his sanity around the time Dr. Gutentag pronounced him unfit for Sochi. 

“I was also at the twilight of my career.” Crow feet crinkled around Yzerman’s eyes in what Steven had learned to read as a gesture of his GM’s amusement at himself. “Probably you haven’t even reached noon in yours. At this stage, you’re young enough not to have to worry about your legacy, since you have plenty more opportunities to be successful.” 

“Yeah.” Steven bit his lip, and then pressed, “Who’s my replacement going to be?” 

“I have to discuss that with the rest of the Team Canada selection committee.” Yzerman was settling into his vague mode, in which drawing useful information out of him was more onerous than yanking out teeth in a brawl. “There are many worthy candidates, and we’d have to explore which one best complements our roster to give us the greatest chance for a gold medal.”

“Marty deserved to be on the team,” persisted Steven, because if he couldn’t go to Sochi, he wanted to ensure that Yzerman did the right thing by Marty. That way, if he couldn’t have a shot at gold, at least Marty could. 

“Thank you for sharing, Steven.” A repressive click of Yzerman’s tongue made it plain that he was really suggesting that Steven shut his mouth with a hot glue gun. “Next time I want to hear such an enlightened outlook, I’ll be sure to tune in to the expert commentary on any sports network.” 

“If Marty went, he wouldn’t be a thirteenth forward.” Steven wasn’t afraid of drowning although he was well-aware that he was skating on thin ice. Being a so-called franchise player had to have certain perks to accompany the pressure, after all. “He’d play a major role.” 

“Not if the coaches didn’t play him.” Yzerman shook his head. “We have to choose whichever player the coaches deem most useful to them.” 

“Right.” Steven locked his gaze on Yzerman’s. “You’re implying that it was Babcock who didn’t want Marty on Team Canada, then?” 

“I’m not going to disclose any of the votes or comments that members of the Team Canada selection committee made in closed meetings.” Yzerman’s jaw clenched. “USA Hockey might have judged it appropriate to allow Burnside to write an article detailing Burke’s assessment of Bobby Ryan’s spelling capabilities, but Hockey Canada doesn’t believe that crassness is constructive for anyone.” 

“You’re the GM for Team Canada.” Steven wasn’t going to leave the battlefield until he had gained some territory. “Surely you can just overrule the committee.” 

“That’s not how a mature person conducts himself in a professional meeting.” Yzerman sighed. “When I assembled a group of the best hockey minds in Canada to advise me on the composition of the Olympic team, I decided that I would only exercise my veto power if I felt that the player in question would be the difference between medaling and not medaling or between what color medals we received. Suffice to say that in the case of Marty, I didn’t think that was so.” 

“Marty is a big-game player.” Steven folded his arms across his chest. “You wouldn’t regret taking him to Sochi.” 

“That may true if that’s what the committee determines is best.” Yzerman’s mouth thinned. “We’ll reach a consensus on who your replacement should be. Then I’ll host a press conference to make the announcement, and you should be in attendance to publically resign, so nobody can assume you were strong-armed into this decision.” 

“Right.” Steven nodded, as his brain already started inventing polite, personable responses for the reporters about how happy he was for whoever replaced him and how he continued to hope that Canada brought home the gold when his heart still was a puree of disappointment and defeat at coming close enough to his dream to practically taste the gold medal on his tongue only to have it snatched away from him at the eleventh hour due to his own body finally betraying him by not healing fast enough. Even being eliminated by the Bruins in the Eastern Conference Finals hadn’t stung to the bone marrow like this. “Whatever you think will make the smoothest transition.” 

“I’m sorry things ended this way, Stammer.” Yzerman pinched the bridge of his nose. “If there’s anything I can do to make this easier for you—“ 

Steven might have let Yzerman trail off into the routine offer of assistance that really promised nothing, but he had to at least try to light the mood with a joke, because being depressed would just make this soul-crushing experience worse for both of them, and that was about last on the list of stuff either of them needed, so he remarked, “Actually, now that you mention it, I was wondering—“ 

“What?” Yzerman’s forehead creased when Steven, remembering the importance of impeccable timing in all wisecracks, paused. 

“If I could keep the jacket,” finished Steven with his most valiant effort at a beatific smile. “It’s so stylish, and it just screams Canada.” 

“Keep it with my compliments.” Yzerman’s voice was grave, but Steven noticed that the furrows along his GM’s brow had erased and Yzerman’s lips had quirked upward in what might have been amusement, which meant Steven could take some pride in making this miserable moment a bit less uncomfortable for both of them. 

“I’ll treasure it,” replied Steven as if he would relish nothing more than snuggling up in it on the sofa while Canada won gold, and the blood in his veins burned like ice. 

“Ahem.” Dr. Gutentag coughed, and Steven couldn’t help but marvel at how frequently those in the medical profession acted ill to garner some attention. “Steven, our medical staff understands that this setback might be discouraging for you, but we’re still pleased with your leg’s progress, and we want you to continue working hard on it over the next two weeks. We need you to put pressure on the bone to strengthen it and to keep your muscles limber and loose. That’s the fastest way for this broken tibia to heal completely.” 

“Got it.” Steven, who had the abrupt need to leave this room and do something instead of just feel helpless against whatever fate his injury sentenced him to, gave a clipped nod. “Is this consultation over, or is there something else you have to tell me, Doctor?” 

“I think we’ve covered everything.” Seeming rather wrong-footed by Steven’s brusqueness, Dr. Gutentag tucked the image from Steven’s CT-Scan into a portfolio. “Unless you’ve got any questions or concerns, I suppose this meeting is over, yes.” 

“I’m good.” Fully aware that this was a falsehood both physically and emotionally, Steven shoved himself out of his chair and over to the door. “I’m going to go work up a sweat in the weight room.” 

On autopilot, his legs carried him down the hallway to the weight room, which was fortunate because his mind was flitting around like a listless mouth and refusing to settle on anything for more than a second. He wasn’t going to Sochi. He had been lucky enough to never miss an NHL game due to injury—since a broken sternum and a slapshot to the face weren’t that bad during the playoffs when everyone was more torn up than Frankenstein—and when he finally did fall it was with just enough time to give him hope but no reality of competing in the Olympics. 

He should call his parents and sister, since he didn’t want them to hear some leaked story first, but contacting them would make what had happened indisputably real, and he wasn’t ready to face that yet. He should notify Coop that he wouldn’t be able to play in Toronto on Saturday after all, but watching Coach scratch him from the line-up again would just remind him of another roster that he had been crossed from, and that was another heartache that he couldn’t deal with right now…

Opening the door to the weight room, he entered the cool domain of exercise equipment where the thrumming central air vents managed to ward off the Tampa humidity. In the back corner, Marty was pumping iron, so Steven wended a path between the treadmills across the room to join him. 

“I won’t be playing on Saturday, Marty.” Steven plopped onto a steel table and began strapping weights around his recovering leg. “The whole Olympics is nixed for me, too, since the callus around my fracture site isn’t completely consolidated, according to the CT-Scan.” 

“I’m sorry.” Marty’s arms trembled before they pressed the weights upward again. “If there’s anything I can do—“ 

“Why do people keep saying that?” demanded Steven, tugging a weight strap too tight and having to slacken it so his blood flow wouldn’t be constricted. 

“Don’t know.” Marty accomplished the feat of shrugging mid-weight lift. “Probably can’t think of anything better.” 

“Well, if Hockey Canada calls asking you to travel to Sochi, you’d better think enough to say yes.” Steven finished adjusting the weights and started raising and lowering his leg in a hypnotic rhythm reminiscent of waves at the beach. “That’s the only thing you could do to make me feel less terrible.” 

“I don’t want to be a replacement.” Stubborn as a bulldog with a bone, Marty shook his head. “Not even for you, Stammer, and I don’t mean that as an insult, since we’re friends, and nothing will ever change that.” 

“You wouldn’t be a replacement or a thirteenth forward.” Steven’s eyes expanded earnestly. “You’d play a major role, because you always step up in big games. In Sochi, you’d have a chance to prove to Babcock how wrong he was not to want you on the roster in the first place.” 

“It’s not Babcock I want to prove wrong.” Marty’s face was a giant thunderhead hovering on the verge of a torrential downpour. “Babcock isn’t the one who saw me play for four years and then left me off Team Canada when it’s my last shot at gold in favor of Chris Kunitz.”

“Listen, Marty, Yzerman made some of his typical cryptic comments—“ Steven threw his palms in the air to illustrate how enigmatic most of their GM’s statements were—“to me about the Team Canada selection committee, and I don’t think he was your biggest enemy in that room. Honestly, I don’t.” 

“That’s not the point.” Marty’s eyes crackled like electrical currents. “He’s my GM. He should have gone to battle for me. The fact that he didn’t tells me he is either a coward or just doesn’t appreciate how much I pour out my heart and soul on the ice whenever I step out there. Why would I want to play for someone like that, eh?” 

“If you can’t play for him, play to spite him, then,” suggested Steven, feeling rather clever for devising this argument on the fly. “That should get you all fired up, and I know you play best when you’re all fired up about something.” 

“You talk like you’re concussed.” Marty’s forehead knotted as if he were considering Steven’s words but he didn’t want Steven to detect that. “Oh, and do you really want to run the risk of our GM hearing you talk about him like that, huh?” 

“What’s the worst Yzerman can do to me, Marty?” Brashly, Steven tossed back his head and chuckled. “Ship me to the Maple Leafs in exchange for eleven-point Clarkson of the contract that even a buyout can’t kill? I mean, Clarkson’s cap hit isn’t that different from mine, which is possibly a sign that I should hire his agent for my contract negotiations.” 

“Nope, trading you back to your hometown team in exchange for a role player with a franchise contract isn’t evil enough.” Marty snorted. “Yzerman would sell you to Edmonton for a barrel of sticks so you can join your fellow first overalls to discover how many of you it takes for the Oilers to make the playoffs.” 

“Now you take the joke too far.” Steven wrinkled his nose. “I can’t be coached by a dude that looks like David Tennant, since that’s probably the only fate worse than being coached by Barry Melrose, and we both know how that ended for me.” 

“With you discovering your scoring touch as soon as a coach who was actually willing to teach you was brought into the mismanaged organization.” Marty’s breaths were coming in ragged bursts now, which typically indicated he was nearing the conclusion of a workout session. “Then you notched over fifty goals the next season, and a huge egg was on his face because he was the one shouting into his microphone that you would never be an NHL caliber player after only sixteen games of working with you. It wasn’t you that looked bad in that situation, believe me.” 

“Just like it won’t be you who looks bad if you accept an invitation to Sochi.” Conversations with Marty about the Olympics always went in circles, and Steven wanted to bring this one back to the beginning. “It’s the selection committee that will seem foolish once you show your worth at the Olympics.” 

“I’m done here, Stammer.” Marty slammed down his weights and stalked toward the door. “See you around.” 

“Will you go to Sochi if you’re asked?” Steven shouted toward the door, desperate to draw out an agreement he could cling to for comfort, because if Marty was going to the Olympics, so was he in a fashion.

“I don’t want to talk about this now, Steven.” Face as uncompromising as granite, Marty spun around to glare at Steven in a warning to keep his jaw nailed shut. 

“You think I do?” sputtered Steven, trapped in a hysteric limbo between laughing and crying. “Do you seriously think that me not going to the Olympics is one of my favorite conversation topics along with pizza and hockey and summer vacation places, Marty?” 

“Apparently it is,” Marty retorted, “because you insist on bringing it up no matter how much it hurts me when you do.” 

“Don’t you see that it hurts for me not to go to the Olympics, especially if you don’t go for me?” snapped Steven, resisting the overwhelming temptation to hurl a weight across the room in Marty’s general direction. “Didn’t you hear how much it must have pained Yzerman to tell you that you didn’t make the roster the first time? You’re so incredibly selfish if you can’t understand that this Olympics has been the very definition of difficult for everybody around here.” 

“If I’m so selfish, I probably don’t deserve to go to the Olympics anyway, so don’t sweat it,” Marty snarled, storming down the corridor. 

The echoes of his harsh words had yet to cease resounding in the weight room and Steven’s ears when Coach Cooper appeared in the doorway and arched an eyebrow. “What’s the racket, Stammer?”

“Sorry,” mumbled Steven, thinking that he had said and heard entirely too many iterations of that nightmarish word today. Sorry, he was learning the hard way, didn’t make anything easier, less painful, or less wrong. It just made everything more respectful and peaceful. Harmony wasn’t happiness but maybe it was the closest to it a person could come at times. “You weren’t supposed to hear that, Coop.” 

“Next time you don’t want me to hear something, you probably shouldn’t belt it at the top of your lungs.” Coop’s second eyebrow lifted to join the first. “Just a suggestion.” 

“Thanks for the tip.” Steven’s mouth twisted, as he decided to rest his leg and removed the weights in one jerky motion. “I’ll deposit it in the memory bank and see if I can ever make a withdrawal.” 

“Dr. Gutentag dropped by my office.” Coop crossed the room to stand over the table where Steven was sitting. “He said that you won’t have medical clearance to play until at least the game against the Predators.” 

“Yeah.” Feeling oddly defensive even though Coop hadn’t exactly accused him of anything, Steven nodded. “I was going to tell you myself, but I guess Dr. Gutentag just couldn’t contain himself and had to share the good news with everyone like a medical missionary.” 

Coop hesitated, as if debating the best approach to this new and improved sarcastic, prickly Steven, and then commented levelly, “I thought you might want to talk to someone.” 

“Well, you thought wrong,” huffed Steven, self-aware enough to recognize that he was taking his temper at his own failing body out at Coop and petty enough not to care. “Could you please get lost somewhere they don’t have a found department now?” 

“Fine, Steven, we’ll do this your way. If you don’t want to talk, you can just listen and listen well.” Coop tapped Steven’s shoulder firmly as if to ensure that he had Steven’s full attention. “I’m not going to force you to talk to me, but if you do open your mouth, I’m not going to allow you to be rude to me. Understood?” 

Keeping his chin up and his jaw taut because he was afraid that if he softened his stance, he might melt into a puddle of tears, Steven stared straight ahead and did his best to act as though he couldn’t see the coach who was reprimanding him. 

“Selective hearing isn’t an answer.” Coop delivered another forceful clap that wasn’t strong enough to hurt but was powerful enough to convey that he meant business to Steven’s shoulder. “I asked if you understood.” 

“Sure I do.” Steven could practically feel himself crumbling like a soaked paper bag, because he couldn’t resist anything remotely like yelling for very long. Even during the peak of his adolescent rebellion years, he hadn’t really needed to be told to do anything more than once. “I apologize. You must think I’m a brat.” 

“Never, Stammer.” Coop’s expression slid into a smile. “In fact, for a superstar, you’re quite down-to-earth, but don’t let that go to your head.” 

Now that he was speaking, Steven found he couldn’t stop. “I know that I’m lucky to be playing in the NHL at all, and I’m so happy and grateful for that, but I’ve dreamed of playing for Canada in the Olympics since I was a kid. This year I finally thought it was going to happen, and now it isn’t. That’s hard to handle.” 

“Being named to the Canadian Olympic team at all is an honor, and nobody will ever be able to take that away from you,” Coop pointed out gently. “You’re one of the most talented hockey players of your generation, and by the time your career is over, the whole world is going to know that.” 

“You’re the best, coach.” Overcome by his own emotions, Steven launched himself off the table and into an awkward embrace of Coop. Steven could feel Coop stiffen slightly in surprise at the tackle-hug, but he couldn’t help being openly affectionate at least in private if that paradox made any sense. “Thanks for being there for me even when I acted like I didn’t want you to be.” 

“My pleasure, Stammer.” Coop patted him on the back. “Keep your spirits up.”


	4. Carrying the Cross

“We all have a cross to carry. I have to carry my own cross. If we don’t carry our crosses, we are going to be crushed under the weight of it.”—Jim Caviezel

The Carrying of the Cross

“You’re really leaving then?” Steven managed to choke out through numb lips as he burst into the otherwise vacant locker room to see Marty emptying the contents of his stall into a giant duffel bag. 

“The Rangers are sending down a private jet so I can play in tonight’s game for them,” answered Marty, glancing at Steven in what might have been an apology or appeal for understanding. 

“That’s nice of them.” Steven’s words were bitter and biting as black coffee, and he was well-aware that he sounded as if he perceived the Rangers dispatching a private jet to collect Marty as being about as lovely as being eaten alive by cannibals. He couldn’t keep that resentful edge out of his voice, because if there ever was a day when he didn’t feel in the mood for bad news, it was the one where he finally received medical clearance to play for Tampa. Now, he might never play another second with Marty, and he was going to look such a fool in the media with his quip about hopefully not being traded. He had been as buoyant as a hot air balloon when he made that wisecrack, and now he felt as if his heart were sinking into a quagmire. 

“Yep, they’ve been really welcoming to me as an organization.” Marty nodded. “That’s why it’s better for my family and me if I play up there, since it’s an easy commute from our house in Greenwich.” 

“You couldn’t have gone to another metropolitan area team? You could only go to the Rangers?” Steven demanded. He wasn’t used to questioning Marty, but with all the news outlets that covered hockey doubting the integrity of Marty’s insistence to be traded to only one team, he had to ask if only to provide an internal response to all those horrible speculations. “What was wrong with the Devils or the Islanders, huh?” 

“With the Devils, I would’ve been confused about whether the Marty chants were form Brodeur or me, which would be awkward for everyone.” Marty’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “As for the Islanders, all that prevents them from being the laughingstock of the league is Tavares. At this late stage in my career, I don’t want to join that comedy routine.”

“Have you heard what everybody’s saying about you in the media?” Steven hoped his tone conveyed how much his heart was torn to shreds every time a commentator or journalist implied that Marty was a baby who continued to cry even when he had his pacifier or a traitor who absconded on his team when they needed him the most. Steven had admired Marty’s hard work and dedication from the time he’d arrived in Tampa, so the last thing he wished to believe was that everything that had made Marty so special was a mere mirage. 

“The media is a brood of vipers that will strike at anyone’s heel without warning.” Marty’s jaw clenched. “Not too long ago, Yzerman was a monster for insulting me by leaving me off Team Canada’s roster. Now that I actually respond to that slight, I’m a terrible turncoat for walking out on my team in the middle of a playoff push. You can’t have it both ways, but the media tries to, although they don’t know what’s said behind closed doors, so they’re in no place to judge.” 

“What was said behind closed doors?” Steven massaged his temples and contemplated if he really wanted to know, even though he couldn’t be posing such a prying question out of courtesy, so he supposed that a perverse part of him—the sick side that watched videos of the surgery his leg had undergone—did. 

“That’s between Yzerman and me.” Truculently, Marty’s chin lifted. “I’ll just say that both of us said things we can’t—and don’t want to—take back, and an angry Yzerman isn’t a saint to build a cathedral in honor of, if you catch my drift.” 

“Yzerman is a dangerous person to get into a public war of words with, you know.” Steven’s palms were rubbing his cheeks now. He had learned that just watching the press conference in which Yzerman had done his best to make Marty’s name mud throughout the NHL while always seeming as if the last item on his overflowing agenda was to shove Marty into the gutter. “He can make you sound like the scum of the earth without acting like he’s not saying anything insulting or inappropriate about you.” 

“That trick only works for him because everyone believes he’s got this perfect character.” Marty rolled his eyes. “He’s just lucky nobody remembers the tantrum he threw in the press about not wanting to be exiled to Ottawa back when everybody and their cat considered him a playoff dud.” 

Now that Marty mentioned it, Steven had a vague recollection—he had to have been only around six at the time so everything was in a childhood cloud when he reflected on it—of trade rumors swirling around, as invisible and hurtful as germs, about Yzerman being shipped to Ottawa. The Captain was on the trading block, and he made it clear—first with defiant proclamations that he wouldn’t report to training camp with the Senators if he was shipped there, and then, once the writing on the wall became more legible, with resigned remarks about how he had always dreamed of winning a Cup in Detroit, but if a trade had to happen, it would be less painful if it was done quickly—that he wasn’t happy about it. The Red Wings fans had rattled the rafters of Joe Louis Arena with a ten minute Yzerman ovation, and all talk of trading Yzerman away from Hockeytown was buried in a ditch, never to be dug out and explored as a viable option. 

“That’s different,” pointed out Steven, since Marty might be his friend now, but Yzerman and Sakic had been his childhood heroes—the two centers who led their teams to championships and defined for the masses everything a hockey player ought to be. “He wanted to stay in one place with one team. People can understand that more easily than being in a hurry to get traded to another team.” 

“People—“ Marty’s gaze locked on Steven’s—“does that mean you, Stammer?” 

“I don’t know.” Steven felt like ripping his hair out with his fingers. “Everybody on this team looks up to you as a leader, so I guess I can’t figure out why you want to leave us to go to some team lower in the standings.” 

“I’ve wanted out of Tampa for awhile.” Beads of sweat formed a crystal necklace encircling Marty’s forehead. “In 2009, I only signed a contract extension because you were here, and I enjoyed playing with you.”

“Don’t stick around any longer for me then.” Steven emitted a laugh that was more about rejection than humor, since Marty’s comment hit him like a box to the ears. “I don’t want to make you miserable.” 

“You don’t.” Marty reached out to grab Steven’s shoulders, but Steven recoiled. “I’ve treasured every second playing on your line, but I can’t stay around just for you anymore. That’s all.” 

“Be happy in New York.” Relenting, Steven clasped Marty’s elbows. “I trust you know what’s best for you and your family, so I respect that.” 

“You’ll be fine here,” Marty assured him. “Once my old carcass is out of the locker room, you’ll be able to be the leader, because I know that you only held back for so long since you didn’t want to step on Vinny’s or my toes.” 

“It’s polite to defer to veterans and volunteer to drive them around on their wheelchairs.” Steven wished that he could sound more playful than hurt, but that obviously wasn’t in the cards today. “When you’re a big-shot on Broadway, remember to call and text me, all right, Marty?” 

“Definitely.” Marty wrapped Steven in a hug. “New York isn’t even a time zone away, nonetheless a light-year away, so of course we’ll stay in touch.” 

The embrace should have provided Steven with comfort and warmth but it only made him feel more cold and vulnerable when Marty released him. With a final farewell jerk of his head, Marty snatched the full bug from his empty stall, slung it over his shoulder, and strode out of the locker room into the hallway without sparing even one more glance back at Steven. 

Wondering how a leg with a rod in it could seem so weak, Steven collapsed into his own stall and buried his head in his hands. His whole chest felt hollow as if his aching heart had been yanked out of him to save him from any further agony. Caving in on himself, he thought that Zetterberg—herniated disc and all—would be hunched over like this if Datsyuk, in a rage at Holland, bolted to the KHL, and Getzlaf would fold like a damp paper bag if Perry lost his mind at Murray and demanded a trade to only one partner, and Murray was actually dumb enough to appease Perry’s furious request instead of coaxing him down from the cliff’s ledge…Sure, Steven had expected to one day play without Marty and lead the Lightning, but he had assumed that would be after Marty retired, not after Marty stormed out on the team on awful terms…

What did you do when the better half of you on ice wasn’t on your team anymore? Did you spend the rest of your hockey career looking to accept a pass from them or side the puck over to them to create a beautiful scoring chance? Did you blame management for letting them leave or them for wanting out in the first place? Did you hate them for not caring as much about the bond between you as did, or did you go on being friends with them as if nothing had happened? Did you drown or in your own resentment, or did you find a way to forgive them and respect their choices even when their decisions felt like betrayals? 

With his face still tucked between his palms, Steven felt more than saw Coop settle into the vacant stall beside him. 

“I’ve been cleared to play at last, Coop.” Steven hoped that if he stuck to the facts he might be able to keep his voice from quaking in sympathy with his trembling body. “I also haven’t been traded for picks and spare parts.” 

“Nobody was even thinking about trading you, Stammer.” Coop’s fingers found the taut knots in Steven’s neck and began to stroke them. “That would be a sign of madness.” 

“It was nuts to trade Marty.” Steven wasn’t mollified because he knew that, while he wasn’t protected by a no trade clause, Yzerman could get drunk and trade him to the Oilers for a seventh round pick, and there was nothing he could do to remain in Tampa if that transpired. “The lunatics are obviously running the asylum.” 

Coop paused for a moment, and then replied with an honest gentleness, “Losing Marty sucks, and you’ll never hear me claim otherwise, but Ryan Callahan could be a good and unique player for us, too.” 

“Marty is elite.” Steven gritted his teeth as he noted inwardly that Coop wasn’t doing a very fine job of massaging the tension out of the muscles in his neck. “It’s going to be really rough for me to adjust to playing without him. Callahan isn’t going to be able to replace him.” 

“Ryan isn’t meant to replace Marty.” Coop persisted in this argument. “He’s meant to be his own player and hopefully bring another dynamic to this team.” 

“Right.” Steven could feel his sarcasm rising like bile on his tongue as it prepared for another cameo appearance. “Marty is top ten in scoring in the league. What’s Callahan top ten in—ridiculous contract proposals? Our team definitely could use that.” 

“Steven.” Coop withdrew his hand from Steven’s neck and his manner became crisp as frost. “You sound a bit ridiculous yourself right now.” 

“Callahan hasn’t even potted eleven goals this year, Coop, and he’s asking for about six million dollars a year, which is what Kane and Toews are making on their current contracts.” Steven snorted. “That’s the height of hilarity.” 

“Look at me,” ordered Coop, tilting Steven’s chin upward. “I understand that you’re upset about losing Marty, but Ryan didn’t ask for a trade. It’s going to be tough for him to adapt to a new team and city, so about the last thing he needs if you giving him the cold shoulder as if he’s somehow to blame for not being Marty, because he’s not.” 

“I wasn’t going to give him the cold shoulder.” Steven’s face flushed since he hadn’t even considered that surly behavior as a possibility. Normally when a fresh face arrived on a call-up from Syracuse or from another NHL franchise, he was one of the first to approach the newcomer with a grin or a joke, because he wanted to be friends—or at least on amicable terms—with everyone in the locker room. “I don’t even really know how to do that to anybody.” 

“Great, and it’s not a skill you’re going to develop.” Coop tapped Steven’s knee. “We’re going to welcome Ryan warmly to Tampa, and I’m even going to travel to the airport to greet him. If he feels a part of this team, he’ll contribute more during the remainder of this season, and if Steve Yzerman wants to re-sign him, he’ll be more likely to at least consider staying here as an alternative. This trade might not have been what everybody wanted, but we’re going to make the best of it. Understand?” 

“Yeah.” Steven nodded, realizing that it was his duty as the longest-tenured Lightning player to project an upbeat, confident aura for the rookies, who had to have been jarred by all the trade rumors just as Steven had. They were young although they had already gained experience and resilience from fighting to remain competitive in the Eastern Conference while he was out with his broken tibia, so now that he was returned, he owed it to them to come out as a leader they could look to for support or guidance. “You’re right. In this locker room, we’ve got to be positive and see the best in one another and not believe nasty rumors about each other. I’m sorry for being a cynical jerk about Ryan. I bet he’s a wonderful teammate.” 

“That’s the spirit.” Coop’s eyes fixed on Steven’s. “You’re getting the C, so I’m relying on you to keep our team close-knit and competitive.” 

“I’m honored.” Steven felt as if the weight of the captaincy were already settling around his shoulder as another cross for him to bear while he made his comeback from his injury. There was pride and joy at being chosen as the team’s official leader through this turbulent transition and the hopefully smoother future seasons, but there was also an almost claustrophobic sense of having to live up to expectations that could crush him if he didn’t. “I’ll do my best to be the leader this team needs.” 

“You’ll do fine.” Coop ruffled Steven’s hair. “You’ve got charisma, Stammer.”


End file.
